You scratched "slut" on my desk today.

Your friends scratched the same word on my locker. Accompanied by many other intangible embarkments. They were laughing while you stood there, watching.

It's almost worse than hearing you say it.

Why do you hate me so much?

Was it you who told them to do it?

I find it strange how writing to you about the pain and what happened today seems appealing to me at this point. If I'm being honest, every word pressed into this page almost clogs my throat, tightening and sifting what I'm breathing in.

I wonder how long it would take for this clogging to successfully cut everything off.